December 22, 2007

Sometimes things we have done in the past; advantages we have taken, exploitations, abuses, these things come back to haunt us. And today was a day when I paid for past misuses of relationships.

When I was young and fertile, I never once purchased my own feminine hygiene products. As a teenager, I prevailed upon my own mother to do this chore. I know her mother probably did not do that for her and when she was a youth, I'm sure she made a promise to herself; that she would never make her own daughter have to suffer the humiliation of purchasing her own pads. And she kept that promise. Not once as a teen did I have to walk a big square box of Kotexes to the counter of the grocery store or pharmacy.

And then when I was in high school and college I was honored to have scored a boyfriend who was as courageous as he was cute. No, not courageous on the football field or the debate team, but courageous in the Safeways of Houston and the Furr's grocery stores of Lubbock. Not once did I have to hide by the feminine hygiene shelves of these stores, waiting until there were no customers in line at the register so I could make my dash to the only female attendant before other customers lined up and I would have to stand there holding the 100 pack of pads that would let everyone in the store know that...I was a fertile female on the rag! I have only fond memories of that boy.

And then as I matured, finished college, entered medical school, I was blessed again, this time with a husband who would yield to my now solid fear of even walking down the feminie hygiene isle, where I would have to seek out the plus tampons and the double strength, extra long pads with wings. By this time there were so many different feminine hygiene products an entire wing of the store was devoted to them and to even head in that direction was to let everyone in the entire superstore know there was a "fertile woman on the rag entering isle 8...fertile woman on the rag entering isle 8!" No, I never had to suffer that humiliation. Girls if you can find a husband who will purchase your pads and put the toilet seat down...score.

Once finishing medical school, my husband and I were soon able to afford the luxury of hiring someone who would occasionally do the grocery shopping for us and the baton...or should I say, the tampon was passed. Besides, she could easily hide the pads among the paper towels, toilet paper and kitty litter.

Now, alas, I no longer have to concern myself with such mundane things. And yet, there is a place in the universe where the inequalities or perhaps deficiencies are counted up and storedcl through which payback escapes and comes down upon those who have benefited and makes them pay, opens up. And today that place came open and it happened to be my day to pay for never having purchased my own full length, double strength, ultra absorbant, night time, two foot long, maxi pads with wings.

Someone in my office gave me a really clever gift...a pair of slippers, made out of maxi pads. They were pretty cute. So cute, I suggested to my daughter that she make a pair to give to her cousin as a gag gift. So my daughter went to the grocery store and bought her own bag of maxi pads. Talk about being proud. Besides the fact that the slippers were cleverly assembled and decorated, she had purchased her own pads! She had not asked me to go get them. What's next? She'll get her own job, with benefits and health insurance. Just kidding...I never bought her pads for her. I don't know who did. Maybe my husband. I'm sure she had to get them herself at some point. This purchase was nothing new.

The slippers were so cute, I suggested she make some little ones for the...nephews. Yes, wouldn't that be cute. Little slippers for the...nephews. Made out of little panty liners. How cute would that be?

Look, don't worry about the nephews. They're too young to know about feminine hygiene and the rest of my family is used to this kind of antic from me and the ones who sprang from me. And my hubby just goes along with it.

So now my daughter lays the "hey, mom, I'll make the slippers, but why don't you, just this once, go get the pads. After all, I've already made one trip." The pay back crack in the universe begins to open. I agree to go get them. Why should I care? I'm a matron. Who cares? I don't use them. No problem. Of course, I'll go get them. And I did acutally feel a twinge of guilt over never having purchased pads for my daughter, as my own mother had done for me. But that twinge didn't last long.

I'm off to the pharmacy. I head down the Kotex isle. I search unabashedly through the myriad products, looking for the smallest, cheapest bag of little panty liners with which to make the tiny slippers. I never wore a teeny tiny panty liner in my life. There are these girls out there who wear a size 0 or size 1. Maybe they do. In a just world those girls would have the periods from hell, requiring one of these maxi pads that would end up going from their navel to their scapula. But that's not the point here anyway. I digress. No, I don't. Bags of maxi pads with wings are the size of an 80 pound bag of Alpo. These itty bitty panty liner bags are the size of a little package of potpourri, easily hidden under the arm until such time as the cashier is free and then slipped into a small paper/plastic bag. The maxis requiring a dolly and an assistant to help carry them to your car. I continue to digress.

I head to the cashier, not even hesitating. Who cares? Not me. The crack opens more and payback begins to flow. One of my son's junior high buddies is behind the counter. He's all grown up and is no longer the awkward youth I remember. He's rather cute and charming. "Hi, Mrs. Nader." (That's how some of my son's friends know me, by my husband's last name.) I toss the two tiny bags on the counter and I'm not sure but I think he looks at them and at me like, right, are you sure you weren't looking for the Alpo bags, Mrs. Nader? I felt heat and redness creeping up my neck, then on to my ears, and finally coming to rest on my wrinkled cheeks.

And what does the 53 year-old-orthopedic surgeon-mom-author say? "Hey, I don't even use these. I'm making slippers out of them."

And he says, "Right, okay...that'll be $7.49."